Rise of the Clones
by katerys
Summary: "He had a special nickname for me, it turns out: Crack Frost. I had a nickname for him, too, in fact: Bitch Black." Rise of the Guardians AU, but you don't have to be familiar with Orphan Black to read. Adventure/humor slow building romance between Jack and Pitch. And loads of character death! Sorry not sorry.
1. Meet Jack Overland Frost

He had a special nickname for me, it turns out:_ Crack Frost._ I had a nickname for him, too, in fact: _Bitch Black._

My name is Jackson Overland Frost. When I was fourteen, my mom and dad pulled a John Winchester and disappeared. Despite our concerns, my little sister and I muddled through somehow. The fourth day on our own, Uncle Nick and Aunt Toothiana meant to pay our parents a visit and found our lonesome selves sitting in the darkness, cold and hungry, the power bill left unpaid. They were furious at first, thinking we had been abandoned, but proceeded to go through the multiple stages of grief after the cops let loose the cadaver dogs and admitted to suspecting foul play. We never saw our parents again, and as the case went cold, our moods soured. I imagine the loyal, tireless members of the Alabama law enforcement were all too eager to go back to simpler times, where the baddest boys in town drove five miles over the speed limit and stole identities—not people. Nick and Toothiana managed to gain temporary, and then complete, custody of Mary and me. While it was still active, the search went nationwide, and Mary and I ended up receiving so much attention that, after the fiftieth care package (that is not an exaggeration, mind you), our adoptive parents decided it was time we relocated. Again.

To a repulsively quaint town in Kentucky, where nothing important happened ever, and our third high school, Mary being only a few months younger than myself. (I know, cliché.)

You could say the repetitive change of scenery was beginning to lose its charm.

We were cast into a new school, and Mary got on well, making more friends than she could count, but I felt like a fish out of water. After a month at 'Frost High School' (ironic, right?), I had one friend: Sanderson Mansnoozie, who was picked on for everything under the sun, but mostly his strange name. Another month rolled by, and Sanderson committed suicide. And he wasn't dicking around when he did it, either. The amount of research he put into his last act was admirable, if not hilarious; he went out hara-kiri style, full-blown seppuku, with a sword in his gut and his shoes unlaced, lying at his side. _And he wasn't even Japanese._

Of course, I didn't find it hilarious. Not I, the boy who had just lost his best friend - and his parents, as well, not much earlier. At least not until I found out _he wasn't actually dead._

The funeral was public and students were invited (more like _obligated_) to go. And most everyone did. Even Pitch, the school bully. His real name was Kozmotis Pitchiner, but everyone called him Pitch Black because no one actually _liked_ him. The consensus was his heart was three sizes too small, or just plain non-existent. He was the one who drove Sanderson to self-disembowelment, and I imagine he only went to his funeral to appease the school board. I guess killing someone wasn't enough for Pitch Black, or maybe he found himself_ liking_ it, because the next day I was the butt of his jokes, just as Sanderson had been.

He had a special nickname for me, it turns out:_ Crack Frost._ I had a nickname for him, too, in fact: _Bitch Black._

Now, I faced a brutal onslaught of verbal abuse every time I went to my locker:

"I'm gonna roundhouse kick your ass into next week, Crack Frost."

"You're a bag of dicks, Frost."

Being the altruistic savant that I am (or just plain lanky and weak), I never fought back, not once. I kept on ignoring him until one day in particular, where he called my sister a little whore, all the while threatening _to fuck her so hard her brains spilled out through her nose._ Seriously, what the hell?

I slammed my locker, and with surprising agility, my fist met his face, breaking his nose with a sickening crack, before he even knew what hit him.

That was the day I believe a profound realization struck him: He wasn't Chuck Norris, and this wasn't _Walker, Texas Ranger_. He couldn't hide behind his insults like they were actual weapons, not when he had crossed the line.

He never bothered me again.

A few months after Sandy's death, when the recollection of said event was no longer painful, I heard someone knock on the front door. Our parents weren't home, so I called out to Mary, who ended up being asleep anyway, "I'll get it!" and made my way to the door, casually opening it.

"Sorry, Nick and Tooth aren't—" My words caught in my throat.

It was _Sanderson Man-fucking-snoozie,_ in the flesh. He pulled out a pen and paper, holding it to the door, and began writing something down. His muteness was another thing in the long list of things he had been bullied for.

He finished and held up the paper. _I expected a mournstache at the very least, Jack._

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." We were actually joking about this; It felt wrong.

He scrawled something else on the paper. _I brought a friend. Hope you don't mind._ He moved aside and _Bitch Black_ walked into view.

It was all too much. Sanderson had pulled a Reichenbach, or Pitch, in his deep-seated regret, learned how to raise the dead. Either way, it was crazy. I think I fainted because I woke up on the couch, Sanderson looming over me with an ice pack and Pitch sitting next to me, his features contorted in fake concern.

Pitch spoke first, to my surprise. "This must all be very . . . hard, I know." He gave me another fake smile, and I noticed his accent for the first time. He wasn't English, was he? I didn't know much about Pitch, but something told me he wasn't. "But we're going to explain all this. You just need to sit tight."

"What does it look like I'm doing? Riverdancing?"

Sanderson laughed, then took the pen and scrawled: _Everything Pitch says is true. I'm going to let him explain, or I'll get carpal tunnel._

I huffed and crossed my arms, leaning into the upholstery with a frown. _  
_

Pitch exhaled sharply and turned to me. The look he gave me made my skin crawl; he looked so sincere, so un-Pitch-like. It was eerie. "Look, this is a lot, but bare with us. We know." He crossed his legs and took a deep breath. "No matter what we say, you're going to think we're dicks, and you won't believe us until we _show_ you, but my name is _Christopher Richard Shrew_, and the man who killed himself wasn't Sandy but a man named _Satoshi Itou_." He acknowledged my further deepening frown but kept going. "Satoshi Itou was raised in a Japanese foster family, hence his . . . colorful suicide. Although, to be fair, hara-kiri hasn't been pract—"

Sanderson slapped him, mouthing something along the lines of "get back on topic, idiot."

Pitch's gaze fell to the ice pack, leaking on the table. "You planning on using that?"

"Knock yourself out. Instinct tells me I should call the cops," I said, glaring at Sandy, "_or your parents__, _but I'm too amused."

Pitch applied the ice pack to his face with a sigh. "Anyway, I'm not the same bully Sandy says you go to school with. Actually, My Jack Frost, whose name is Michael Miller, was a total dick."

"Guys, this isn't the Fairly-Fucking-OddParents. There are no anti—"

"Yes, there are, sort of. No, no anti-fairies. But, Jack, we're all_ clones_. I found Sandy before they did, thank goodness, but we're all in terrible danger. There's . . . there are these blokes, and they—"

I stood up, unimpressed with Pitch's fake English accent, angry that Sandy had lied to me. "Alright, you guys need to get the fuck out of my house."

"Just let us prove it, Jack."

I could_ feel_ my blood pressure rising. "Have you guys gone schizo?"

Pitch stood and approached me cautiously, his amber eyes beseeching mine, and at that moment, the insane difference in our height was re-established. "Just let us prove it, and we'll leave you alone if that's what you really want." There was something about this tall monstrosity begging _me_, a puny, weak being years younger than himself, that edged me into playing along, just barely.

"Whatever. I do this and you guys fuck the fuck off?"

Sanderson nodded and Pitch put a hand over his heart mockingly. "We swear."

"Alright," I said, and raised an eyebrow at Sandy and Pitch, respectively. My gaze lingered on Pitch. "Show me what you got, Clifford."

He forced a smile, but his voice gave him away. "Anyway, It's time we made a house call."

"Uh, what?"

Pitch rolled his eyes, frowning. "We're going to visit someone."

"Yes, I know the terminology. Why, and _where_?"

Pitch smirked, and so did Sandy. "To the abode of Kozmotis Pitchiner, your bully." He noticed my frown, again. "You promised to humor us, Jack."

I grabbed my coat, not intending to freeze my ass off in the middle of fall. Then I remembered Mary and my aunt and uncle. "Got another paper, Sandy?"

Sandy nodded, pulling a crumpled piece of lined paper out of his jacket, and reached for the pen with his free hand. He handed them both to me.

I had assumed we were walking, but apparently Pitch had _stolen a car. _I couldn't ever remember not seeing him walk to school, not even that day. True, perhaps it was a parent's vehicle, but I had always assumed Pitch was the result of an unloving, dysfunctional family. I opened the door and slid into the backseat with building concern. Sandy sat in the passenger's seat; Pitch sat behind the wheel, started the car, and drove.

The ride was silent and awkward, but it was over almost as soon as it began. I was surprised—and appalled—to learn that Pitch lived so close to me, only three blocks away, in a ramshackle two-story colonial.

Pitch parked the car and turned to look at me. "What you're about to see might be too much, Jack."

"How do you even know Anti-Pitch is home?" I scoffed, trying my best to play to their insanity. At some point I had become overwhelmed with the base instinct of self-preservation; something bad was going to happen. I could feel it.

Pitch smiled, getting out of the car and motioning for me to follow. "Trust me. He's the _only_ one home."

_Okay_, I thought bitterly, _so Pitch and Sandy have been stalking Pitch's family, and they think that there's a changeling in there pretending to be Pitch. Right. Cool. What the hell have I gotten myself into?_ I decided the best thing I could do for now was play along and attempt to sneak away when their backs were turned.

I think Sandy realized this because, as I made to follow Pitch, he grabbed my hand and escorted me to the door, like I was some damn princess. I begrudgingly allowed him to yank me forward. By the time we made it to the steps, Pitch was already ringing the doorbell. I saw him reach into his jacket and run his fingers along the inside absentmindedly. As if to quell my concerns, he pulled out a cigarette, and I felt relieved.

The door opened and reality hit me head-on. Standing there, with an icy gaze and a hand on his hips, was none other than Pitch Black. I shook my head. _They must be twins._

"Who the_ fuck_ are _you?" _The Pitch standing in the doorway groaned in confusion.

_Long-lost twins, maybe?_ I watched as Chris-Pitch extended his hand, offering the cigarette to his twin. "Can we come inside?"

"Fuck no." Still, Pitch eyed the cigarette lustily, swiping it out of his twin's hand. _Swiper, no swiping. _He pulled a lighter from inside his pants pocket, then stood, for what seemed like minutes, in deep contemplation. "That is, not unless you have more smokes."

Chris-Pitch tossed him a full pack of grape-flavored cigarillos, and Pitch caught it gracelessly, stepping aside. Our host grinned, muttering, "I guess these will have to do. . . . Just let me make a quick phone call. Parentals and all that."

Chris-Pitch and Sandy nodded, stepping inside. With any more force, Sandy would have ended up throwing me across the door mat. With his back turned, Pitch started pressing buttons on his cell phone. I looked at Chris and Sandy. Chris was snaking his arm inside his jacket again, this time with an unsettling cautiousness. I heard a faint 'click' and tried to squeal out a warning, but Chris-Pitch whipped out a pistol and blew Pitch's happy 'C' student brains onto the linoleum just as a voice came through on the other line. "Hello?" it repeated over and over. "Pitch, you there? What was that noise?"

Fight-or-flight instinct kicking in, I pointed at the body, then at Chris-Pitch's gun, then back at the corpse. "WHAT THE FUCKING HELL WAS THAT?"

Chris-Pitch ignored me, stepping over his twin, and grabbed the phone out of the pool of crimson. He held the phone to his ear, dropping his accent and dabbing the blood with his jacket. "This is Pitch. Everything's fine. Someone did attack me. Yes, he looks exactly like me. Yes. Okay, I'll wait for your arrival." The murderer flipped the phone shut and sauntered back to the only other living people in the house. "Sandy, you take Frost and go. Tell the others that stage one is a success."

* * *

A/N -

I pulled the clones' names out of my ass. Jack will be nicer when he begins understanding what's going on.

IF YOU GUYS HAVE SPECIFIC REQUESTS WHEN IT COMES TO OTHER CLONES, LET ME KNOW. :D

Can't decide if I want to continue the glorious first-person narrative from Frost's view or multiple narrators.

If you guys haven't noticed by now, I love writing cross-over fiction. My other stories are still being written, don't you worry.


	2. Mr Negativity

"You guys aren't exactly showing me your most glamorous features when you lodge a bullet in my classmate's brain and subject me to copious amounts of chloroform."

I felt numb. _I suppose this is what they call 'shock,' huh?_ I had just witnessed a stranger_ murder a classmate of mine;_ it didn't matter that no one had liked him, or that the murderer looked identical to his victim. Was I an accomplice, a suspect? _Definitely a suspect,_ I thought, the realization causing me to stop in my tracks. I groaned. Assuming I lived through this encounter, I was going to jail, or_ worse._

Distantly, I felt a tug on my hand, pulling me forward, out of my thoughts. I looked up and swore I saw the face of Sanderson Mansnoozie.

Then I remembered.

"You!" I hissed, resisting once again. "You killed Pitch, you and his twin. But you aren't going to kill me." I jumped back, out of his grasp, in a last-ditch effort to flee. Sanderson looked surprised, as if he hadn't expected me to resist, then frowned. He lurched forward unexpectedly, pulling a wet cloth from his coat, and pressed it to my face, smothering me.

Had I died, only to skip out on heaven and find myself stuck in a fast-paced procedural cop show? _Abby Scuito, __Abby Scuito, __Abby Scuito,_ I repeated mentally, like it would cause her to appear and everything else to_ stop._ No dice. I sighed, my head drooping forward and my knees on the verge of giving out. Sandy caught me before I could took a nosedive into the pavement, shrugging as if to say, "Don't mention it." I didn't have one infinitesimal sliver of trust for the man, but all the same, I was grateful he hadn't decided to let me crack my skull on the pavement and spill my cerebral matter everywhere. Maybe I had misjudged his character? After all, he had _only_ lied to me, made me an accessory to murder, and chloroformed the fuck out of me. I managed a dry laugh and felt something trickle down my chin. Blood, perhaps vomit, I couldn't tell.

The last thing I remember before waking up was Sandy throwing me into the backseat of Not-Pitch's car with uncanny force for a man not half my size.

Was he always that strong? If so, why hadn't he stood up to Pitch before? One punch to the face would have stopped Pitch, and it never would've had to come to this; that much I knew.

When I came to, Pitch the Murderer was back, leaning over me, his features unreadable. Sandy, however, was gone.

"You're awake. Good. I thought Sandy had accidentally killed you."

Accidentally? Well, at least they weren't planning on killing me . . . yet. "Where am I?"

Pitch looked unimpressed. "Where does it look like you are, Jack?"

I looked around again. The room was cavernous; the walls were made of onyx stone. I shivered, feeling a draft, and dropped further into the futon, pulling the blanket up to my chin. They were saving me for something, apparently. _All these comforts - the blanket, the furniture, the pillow, the glass of water and plate of cookies on the table - must be ploys to gain my trust,_ I decided. _Well, I'm not falling for it. _I sat up straight, blatantly ignoring the refreshments (poison me once, shame on you), and gave Pitch a long, hard look. "A basement."

"Yahtzee!" Pitch grinned, throwing his arms out like I had just won myself a new car and confetti was about to fall. "Welcome to my basement. Sorry you haven't had the chance to tour the rest of the house." Was this a joke to him? If NCIS ever got anything right at all, chloroform was deadly, and it could _kill._

"Well, aren't you charming?" He smiled delightedly, and I paused, letting the silence sink in. "For a murderer." Though, in the past, I had broken his twin's nose, this Pitch seemed . . . different somehow, like he was stronger. Deadlier. I couldn't fight him, not physically, at least, but I could take a stab at his pride.

He just _grinned._ "I like to think of myself as a twenty-first century Ted Bundy." His face fell, taking on the same look of feigned concern that had been plastered on it moments before he'd tricked me into his car and scattered his twin's brains across the floor. "But seriously, Jack, most serial killers have their own level of charm and flare."

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but wasn't Ted Bundy _attractive?"_

Pitch quirked an eyebrow. "You're saying I'm not?" He inched closer, his eyes tracing my figure like a predator. "Why so serious, Jack?"

"Seriously?"

"All work and no play makes Jack—"

A quick intake of breath. Pitch was crazy; and his craziness had rubbed off on Sandy. They were both just criminals inspired by pop culture and figures like Charles Manson. It was hard to think of Sandy as a bloodcurdling killer, or that this was all a byproduct of their own psychopathic delusions, but really, what explanation made more sense: mine or theirs?

"Pitch," I spat. "You're just a sick man who wiki'd one too many serial killers, and eventually, just researching your favorites wasn't enough. Eventually, you had to emula—"

He stormed out of the room, making sure to lock the door, and I grinned in victory. Score: 1—0. _Better luck next time, Pitch._

'Next time' didn't come soon enough.

I don't know how long I sat there, in the darkness, but I assume, based on the building urge to give a big middle finger to self-preservation and crash on the futon, that it was night-time when I heard footsteps on the stairway again. Regardless, enough time had passed for me to have my next course of action planned out: play along with the crazies, then escape once they've had their fun. Not that those kinds of ideas ever play out how they're meant to, or that I had any idea how far Bonnie and Clyde had to go before their needs were satiated.

"Hello, Clarice," Pitch called from beyond the door.

"Dr. Lecter," I chided as he stepped under the archway, "I think you have an unreliable memory. You're the one who's supposed to be behind bars at this point in the film." God, if I ever wanted to see anything other than these stone walls again, I had to learn to shut my mouth.

"That may be true," he said, curling his lips. "But, in the second, you fall head over heels in love with me, so why worry your pretty head over that dirty little fact?"

"Clarice only goes off with Hannibal because _he drugs her,"_ I barked back, livid that he was bringing up my near-death experience once again, in those snappy innuendos he felt so inclined to dance around. "Which, by the way, sounds strikingly similar to recent events."

Pitch waved his right hand dismissively. "Details, shmetails."

_Unbelievable. _"You are an asshole." I made sure to drawl out every syllable.

Ignoring my remark, he crossed the room, closing the distance between us with frightening agility. "Jack, there's something I want you to see."

He slipped a paper into my hand before I had time to object.

It was a photograph. A photograph of _me, _but it wasn't, nor could it be, me.

"In what secret life of yours do you dress like a vagabond or steal purses off old women?"

Baffled, I gave the photo back to him. "I don't have one." A realization hit me, and I edged deeper into the futon, trying to increase the distance between us but unwilling to risk a foolhardy sprint to the door. Something in me—probably that thing known as self-preservation—dared me to try. And, to get away from the full-fledged stalker-murderer before me, I almost did.

"Don't even think about it," Pitch urged warily, crushing my spirits. "You won't get far."

I rolled my eyes at the dark-haired man. "So, do you get off on stalking people?"

"Oh"—Pitch smiled—"I didn't take those."

Those? There were more pictures? He noticed my confusion. "Jack, I think it's time you meet the rest of us and find out the reason why we brought you here in the first place. In fact, I would say it's long overdue."

I clapped my hands. "Oh, goodie."

He grabbed my wrist, hard; and for a moment, I expected him to snap it. "No bolting." He let go, but kept a close eye on me as I followed him up to the first floor, glancing back every so often.

"You flatter me, Pitch. Do I really resemble Zeus?" He sent a glare over his shoulder, and I chose that moment to run my hands over my face, as if appraising each feature. "It's the high cheekbones, isn't it?" My hands came to rest at my chin, grazing my stubble; I needed to shave, but inane needs could wait until I was out of the frying pan, right? "Or is it the beard?"

He released a disapproving sigh and turned forward.

I was only slightly relieved when my feet were back on hardwood and actual light was illuminating my surroundings; I still had a long way to go before I was home free. Eyeing the front door, I considered running, but Pitch grabbed my shirt, giving me a small yank. He led me to the kitchen, where his partners-in-crime were gathered.

I stopped, reluctant to approach the two figures before me, but placing a careful hand on my shoulder, Pitch edged me forward, lightly.

The vagabond wasn't there; I couldn't decide whether or not I was thankful for it. I had some questions for him. Sandy was sitting at the island. The hairs on my neck standing on end, every nerve in my body telling me to try to slip past Pitch and _run,_ I approached the honey-haired, death-cheating smurf and pulled up a stool next to him. I tried to ignore the fact that, while vacant of the vagrant, there was _still another me in the room._ And_ she (!?)_ had_ boobs._

"That," I sneered, glancing at the girl, who had abandoned her previous act of emptying out the dishwasher and gone over to talk to Pitch, "cannot be my sister. I only have one."

Sanderson swiped a piece of paper across the table, into my view. There was a whole paragraph already written on it: _He's your clone. Yes, 'he's.' He was born male, just like you, and has yet to obtain the parts that are essential for his metamorphosis into a woman. So, 'he's.'_ I chuckled, appreciating Sandy's literal (bigoted) stance, before coming to the last sentence: Your_ laughter is precious._

He really had thought that paragraph through, hadn't he? Or, in our short time together as friends, had we really grown that close, where we could predict the other's exact train of thought? That question begged another: were we _still_ friends? 'Crazy' was beginning to sound a lot more attractive than my more rational theories. I turned to Pitch.

"Explain. I'm listening."

"Praise be to God!" Pitch exclaimed. "I was getting afraid we'd have to wait around until the Second Coming."

_Wait. _Was the murderer actually religious, or was the expression just more blatant sarcasm? I shrugged, mentally, thinking, _Well, I guess many murderers do feel as if 'God' compels them to stop beating hearts. _I decided the issue wasn't all that important but still felt stupid not knowing. I wasn't what you'd call 'religious' back then, so it didn't matter much, but knowing would dispel another assumed similarity between my Pitch and this one: religion, or lack there of. I never thought of Kozmotis as a devil-worshiper, but imagining him praying to Jesus or Mary every night was _impossible. _And hilarious. So maybe this Pitch wasn't all that bad.

The girl stayed where she was, back at the sink again, but to my horror, Pitch took the seat to the right of mine. "Sorry . . . I thought Bunnymund would be here, but I guess he's off somewhere." He sat down, looking at me intelligently. "Whoever it is that's doing this, Jack, is really invested in _you."_

I pouted, imagining complete strangers interested in me, stalking me. Not that it mattered. I didn't doubt for a second these guys were doing that anyway. "Interested in me how?"

"Honestly, we don't know. But we do have a theory." He paused, as if searching out the words. "We believe you are the original clone. The first of your clones."

"Wait," I blurted, still not totally buying what Pitch was trying to sell me, but caught off guard all the same, "how many clones are there of me?"

"We've counted 23, so far."

"Great!" I gave Pitch an over-the-top smile. "When can I meet the rest of the Brady Bunch?"

"Minus you, Cheri, and the stray, they're all dead." He watched my eyes fall and frowned. "Our . . . evidence leads us to believe they were all killed. By who, we don't know. But the killer seems to be after the ones who are left, which is why we need to find the stray, and also why we used our resources to . . . obtain you."

Obtain, really? "That isn't the wording I would use." His face lit up, and I returned his smile with a scowl. "So, you think someone is out to get me, but someone else is out to protect me—including you guys, apparently?"

Pitch nodded. "Before you ask, yes, we've been watching them watch you."

These guys were, like, ultra stalkers, then. _Ugh._ "Wow, guys, if stalking was a profession, I think you'd be right up there with Steve Jobs." The girl, Cheri, giggled behind me.

Pitch, however, rolled his eyes. "Oh, control yourself, Cheri. Everything that comes out of his mouth is a double-edged sword." His irises flicked to me. "You were about to say 'successful and dead,' weren't you?"

It was my turn to roll my eyes. (It seemed like we were doing this a lot.) "So what if I was? You guys aren't exactly showing me your most glamorous features when you lodge a bullet in my classmate's brain and subject me to copious amounts of chloroform."

_"Copious amounts?" _Pitch stood, running a hand through his raven-hair. He looked tired, and the closer I observed his features, the more he appeared to be hiding behind some sort of pretense, like his whole 'good guy act' was just that—a mere charade—and his real self was but a shadow of the man I was seeing. Not that the Pitch he had fabricated was the greatest example of a human being. Far from it. "Hardly. Also, that whole victim complex you have going was amusing at first, but it's time to stop. I'm a grown man in possession of a very legal firearms license. And, if anything, I did you a favor."

I felt the blood leave my face. I never wanted Kozmotis to _die. _Sure, he was quite possibly the largest asshole to ever live, but _I didn't ask anyone to kill him. _Suddenly, I was angry: angry at Sandy for betraying my trust, angry at this group for stalking me, angry at the world because, for all I knew, my parents were lying dead in its dirt, but most importantly, angry at Pitch. Because of him, I was an unwitting accessory to murder. Nothing the Kentucky law had time for; they'd just as soon lock me up and throw away the key before sitting down and doing the paperwork necessary to prove my innocence. (Or maybe that was the orphan in me talking.) It felt like Pitch was trying use me to reason away his savage actions. I never asked for an avenging angel, and I didn't want one. Just as I considered throwing my stool at him, a figure burst through the door.

The Indiana Jones look-alike stumbled inside, took a glance at me, and deadpanned. "Bloody hell."

I guffawed. "Aster?"

* * *

A/N -

I had a whooooole lot more planned for this chapter, but I felt this was a good cliffhanger. Here's another: Bunny (Aster Mund in this story) has a secret. Any guesses as to what?

The next chapter will be full of action-packed goodness! And, at least at some point in the chapter, happier Jack! I know he's really negative and sarcastic right now, but it's supposed to reflect his reaction to the situation he was thrown into, even if the story is more of a memoir. He's also a kid, so as a narrator he wouldn't be the most mature. _Or reliable. _Pitch and Jack will also have their first (sort of) moment.

Mr. Negativityyyyyyyy.


	3. Blame the Internet

A crash came from behind me, and I was showered with shards of broken glass. I whipped around, pulling the knife from my boot, expecting to see Bunny. I gasped.

I laughed so hard for so long everyone in the room probably thought I had lost my mind;_ I_ thought I'd lost my mind. "This can't be happening," I muttered when my fit was over.

"Crikey, Jack!" Harrison Ford turned to me. "Been a while, huh?"

I let loose a low growl. "Not long enough."

Originally from Melbourne, Australia, Aster moved here two years ago. He was one of my classmates, before he dropped out, and we had what one could call a 'history.' He had a habit of poking his nose where it didn't belong. Actually, he had been one of the few people who didn't make an appearance at Sanderson Mansnoozie's funeral. Satoshi Itou's, _whatever._

Then it clicked. "Sandy, what about your parents? They think you're _dead!"_

Sanderson shrugged and scribbled something down. He stood, walked over, and placed a piece of parchment in my hand. _I'm glad they do. I'm enjoying my Japanese foster family immensely._

I gaped. "What the _hell,_ man?" I grabbed the collar of his shirt and shook him, forgetting once again that I was bearing witness to some kind of cult meeting and lucky to still be alive, no less. "They are your _parents."_

Pitch stepped in, wrenching me off Sandy. "His lying parents, but good things come to those who wait, Jack." He gave Aster an expectant look. "Where were you, Bunnymund?"

_'Bunnymund?' _I had questions and no answers—none that made sense, at least.

"The bloody dero I took pictures of earlier was following me. I lost him, though."

Cheri approached Aster and eyed him carefully. "This wouldn't be the first time you've told us that, Bunny."

Aster narrowed his eyes. "I know what I'm doing, mate. I made sure I lost the mongrel."

"Oh, really?" I felt the whole room tense as Cheri prodded Aster in the chest with one of her cropped plastic nails. "You surer than last time?"

Pitch and Sandy stepped forward, attempting to diffuse the argument before it became violent. Pitch grabbed Aster and Sandy grabbed Cheri, yanking them in the opposite directions and giving me a clear path to the door. Their mistake.

I ran. The door, still partway open, slammed against the light-blue siding as I darted through the archway. Pitch reacted first, letting go of Aster and grabbing my shoulder, but I sent a well-aimed kick to his nuts, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Next, 'Bunny' bounded after me, followed by Cheri and Sandy. I glanced back every so often and watched as the mob tailing me slowly dispersed. Sandy relented after the first block, pulling out his inhaler and collapsing on the ground. I almost felt sorry for him. Cheri gave up soon after, her ridiculously fake watermelon boobs continuing to jiggle as she caught her breath. These guys didn't get out much, did they?

Bunny was the fastest and most determined. As I rounded the third—and last—block, my house in sight, he jumped out from behind my neighbor's shed, tackling me, and pinned me to the ground. I groaned under his weight. _How did he do that? He was right behind me a second ago._

I'm not normally what I would consider 'strong,' but with all the adrenaline from the chase pumping through my veins, I managed to_ throw _Aster off me. He muttered a curse under his breath as I threw myself to my feet and ran past my mailbox, up the steps, and inside my house.

I bolted the door. It was nine o'clock; Tooth and Nick wouldn't be home until at least eleven-thirty. Putting my hands on my thighs, I leaned forward and caught my breath, and began planning my next course of action. I could call the cops, but these guys weren't stupid; they would be long gone before the cavalry showed up. _If_ they showed up. I shook my head. Of course they would; that's their job. How many times could they possibly fail me? And my sister?

_Mary._ I wandered down the hallway, to her room. I rapped my knuckles against the door. No response. I twisted the knob slowly, and stepped inside. She was lying in her bed, unharmed. They hadn't touched her. _Good. _Taking things into my own hands, I waited at the front door with a knife, in case Aster took a gamble and attempted a break-in.

Thirty minutes passed, and with no sign of Indiana, I was back in the kitchen, deciding what to have for a snack. Scavenging through the cupboards, I found Cheerios, a single bagel, and a box of oatmeal. Grinning, I sat the box of Cheerios down on the counter and moved to the fridge. I opened it and frowned. Out of milk. Of course. I was starved. I hadn't eaten since school, way before I had been abducted from my own home.

A crash came from behind me, and I was showered with shards of broken glass. I whipped around, pulling the knife from my boot, expecting to see Bunny. I gasped.

I was face-to-face with another version of me. This time it was the man from the photograph. He looked exactly like me, except for the obvious wardrobe malfunction and sour smell. He, too, had a knife. To my surprise, Pitch climbed through the empty window, but it was too late. The clone didn't say anything, just lunged, sinking his blade deep into my side. He smirked and twisted the blade upward, deeper still, then retracted it, spraying crimson across his worn-out shirt. His face gave nothing away, and he smiled in satisfaction, as if he were a procurer of uncommon stains and his moldy yellow shirt was his prized collection. Blood dripped from my gut to the floor, and I fell forward.

In the distance, I could hear a faint 'click' as Pitch released the safety on his pistol. The boy ran, but not before Pitch could find his aim. Smelly took a bullet to his right shoulder, yelped, and staggered off. Pitch let him go and ran to my side.

This time, I woke up in a hospital bed. _I've had enough of this. _I sat up groggily and leaned against the wall, taking in my surroundings: the room was an ordinary hospital-white, with ugly, unpainted trim running along the floor. The TV was on some blurry local channel with a bad connection, and judging by the strands of light piercing the shades, it was day-time. I lifted my shirt and found a row of stitches where the hole had been. I absently traced them with my index finger.

"Unless you want an infection, I would suggest you not touch those." Pitch was standing in the doorway, a bag of trail-mix in his left hand. He turned and called for a nurse.

Nurses and doctors came and went, preparing me to be discharged. They explained that the knife had, rather miraculously, missed my colon and struck my appendix—a small, fairly useless organ just underneath it. The surgeon who had operated on me came in at one point and described the gory, unnecessary details of my appendectomy. The things that happen when one is fast asleep.

Pitch stayed with me the whole time, answering every question he could before my parents arrived. He told me he had followed me to my house in his car shortly after I escaped, a bad feeling in his gut. (I tried to ignore how hardcore stalker-like that sounded.) When he arrived, the window was broken. He called 911, jumped through the opening, potentially killed another person, and woke Mary, telling her some fake story about how he just happened to be driving by when he heard a scream. By the time I was admitted, visiting hours were over, but he made sure to visit me the second the hospital was open. He left shortly before my parents showed up, promising to explain everything else when I was better, which was just as well because, with all the medication I was doped up on, it was everything I could do not to fall asleep on him.

When I was ready to be released, Nick and Tooth arrived with my little sister and a bag of clothes. Mary hugged me, making sure to avoid the wound. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Me too. You're a deep sleeper."

She averted her eyes and moved away. My guardians' eyes were mixed with disbelief and concern. Nick threw me the bag, and I closed the curtains and got dressed.

* * *

AN -

Notice how the narrative changes depending on Jack's mood? At first he was sarcastic, then defensive and slightly immature, but now his narration is richer and more serious. I like how this kind of narration sounds, so I'm going to try to keep Jack in this kind of mood as long as possible because ch. 1+2 Jack is a little too sarcastic for my liking, but I think that just makes him seem more real.

But I will never stop making references to pop culture because I think that adds a more teenage dimension to him, shows his interests through his writing. Or my interests, but whatever. Without them I couldn't stand this first-person narrative.

I was so angry when I wrote this chapter. I write all my chaps directly into this website, and for some reason, the page refreshed right after I typed out the ending but before I could save. So I literally lost half the story and had to rely on memory to re-write it. Thus, the title.

FUN FACT: I DON'T KNOW AUSTRALIAN SLANG, SO IF 'DERO' ISN'T THE CORRECT WORD FOR A HOMELESS PERSON, DON'T HATE ME.

I'll stick a British word in for Clone-Pitch when I can; I'm American, and I watch too many British shows, so I really forget which words come from which country.

Jack finally gets an explanation for everything next chapter! Was supposed to happen this chapter, but I lost it. Next chapter, Jack will receive firearms training from Pitch, which was also supposed to happen this chapter.


	4. Silly Sociopath, Sleepovers Are for Kids

Pitch arrived three days later, when my Vicodin-induced state of lethargy had mostly worn off. (In other words, I had consumed all my drugs. Oops.) I would be lying if I said I was surprised to hear a knock not five minutes after Tooth's '13 Malibu vacated the garage and chugged down the road, carrying my sister and aunt and uncle inside it. I heaved myself off the couch with a grunt, my abdomen still tender. The hospice may have let me out early considering the rather unconventional circumstances leading to my appendectomy, but they had still suggested I rest in my bed at least a week, with no strenuous activities, which I assumed meant sex.

This 'pain' was a blessing compared to the sheer agony I had felt days earlier, when Not-Me had given my appendix a sharp kiss of cold steel. Next I faced the grueling process of getting my ass from the living room to the front door. (Upon entering our house, the first two rooms are the kitchen and living/dining room; north and south end, respectively, no barricade in between.) I edged myself toward the door with the most miserable, pained expression on my face. I turned the knob, and the door swung open, and lo and behold, there stood Pitch Black's impostor, whose name I had already forgotten. (Or couldn't be bothered to remember.) But, I had been addressing him as Pitch, both in my mind and to him directly, so why make an effort to stop now?

"Pitch?" I noticed the black case under his arm. "What's that?"

"The one and only, since last week." He gave me a wolfish grin, and all of a sudden I felt like Little Red Riding Hood. Except, you know, with ten times the testosterone, and a dick. "The case I carry my laptop in. I wanted to show you something." He invited himself inside, shouldering past me, and made for the couch I had been sprawled out on only moments ago. I followed him back to the living room like a hungry, partially-injured shadow, my heart careening in my chest as I mulled over the possibilities. I felt a surge of satisfaction as I sat down next to him, feeling closer to the—albeit batty—truth than ever before.

There was silence. He had set the case on the floor, showing no visible inclination or desire to bend over and retrieve the laptop from within. I wanted to say something to him, to break the awkward silence that had somehow fallen over us like an early-morning mist, but I took one look at him and stopped myself: I felt like I was seeing another piece of the genuine Pitch he kept hidden away, under lock and key.

He must have noticed me scrutinizing him because a sharp intake of breath later and he felt like talking again.

"Sorry."

I blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"

He shifted awkwardly and reached for the laptop, pulling it out of the case and flipping it open. Apparently our therapy session was reaching its end. "For the wound. I would have shown up sooner, and probably stopped the asshole before he ever made it to your house, but I thought Bunnymund could catch you."

I didn't know what to say. Then I remembered my previous actions and, feeling my face heat up, had the decency to mutter, "Uhh . . . sorry for the assault on your teste—"

He cut me off, probably purposely. "It's all good. . . ." He looked drained, and if I didn't know any better, regretful. _Unlike when he sent the real Pitch to Hell and grazed Smelly's shoulder, _I recalled bitterly.

I decided to make small talk. "You can still have kids, right?" I shuddered inwardly at the thought. Two Pitch's were enough Pitch's for me.

"Probably, but one's enough for now."

Well, that was a surprise. So Pitch wasn't just a one-dimensional nuclear weapon waiting to go off. He was a_ dad._ That was good to know, if only to document as a pressure point to be used against him later, should he make it necessary. When he snapped at me days ago, I had sworn I saw something there. Something not good. Malevolent, even. My gut could have been wrong, of course, and at this point it probably wouldn't do me much good, considering I was missing a substantial portion of it, but my instincts were really the only thing I had left to go on. Logic had cleaned out its office and left the building the day Sandy had come back from the dead. Still, Pitch seemed . . . stable enough, for now. But, even if he was just another regular guy caught up in this crazy mess, he seemed a little too trigger-happy. Though, in all fairness, he had never smiled while unloading those bullets,_ not once. _If anything, he had shown a blasé indifference to the act of killing another being. Like he had done it before, many times. And that was a good enough reason for me to be on my guard. _Just because he has a kid doesn't mean he's Liam Neeson,_ I chided myself.

I couldn't help but not trust him. Any of them. _Pitch saved my life,_ I reminded myself, but it didn't matter. It didn't even matter that I had been undeniably ruder to him, even when he had 'lashed' out at me. I looked at the laptop: the screen was still blank. His index finger had been trembling above the power button this whole time. Unsure of what to do, and unwilling to ask what was upsetting him, I babbled on. "I don't suppose your kid is a clone, too?"

My mistake. The corners of his mouth curled inward, into a grimace, and a line creased his brow. "If it's all the same, Jack, I'd rather not talk about my daughter." He found his nerve and booted up the computer, and I knew my short time as Doctor Phil was over.

I watched silently as he sifted through hordes of files, _minimizing, closing, minimizing, _until one in particular stood out. I couldn't believe my eyes. "Uh, Pitch?"

His eyes widened in horror, and the mouse made a beeline for the red 'X' in the corner, and the image was gone.

A moment of silence. For Pitch, I assume it was a moment of shame. "Was that . . . Aster?"

His voice was faint, like a mouse squeak, his face as red as Clifford himself. "Indeed."

I felt my stomach churn. "I think I need to throw up."

"Me too," he mumbled, "I thought I had deleted that. . . ." His voice trailed off, but I was scarcely interested as to the direction it had been going.

"I understand . . . biological needs, Pitch, but Aster isn't really what I would consider. . . ." I felt a lump forming in my throat, brought on by the embarrassing situation I had found myself in. Pitch was like a magnet for the terrible, awkward, and dangerous. I just wanted this moment to end.

He finished for me (and I soon wished he hadn't). "Attractive? No, not really." Pitch made sure to look anywhere but at me as he spoke, the words coming out in a jumbled torrent, "But he is the only clean prostitute I know." His face went purple. "It was a one-time thing. . . . I'm not . . . dirty."

Oh, great._ Ever heard of TMI, you bloodthirsty, gun-toting manchild? _I felt my gag reflex trying to activate itself, and swallowed. I desperately thought of a way to change the subject, before Pitch's face went all out mulberry. "So, 'Bunnymund' is his"—I felt my throat constrict like it wanted to force the words back down my larynx—"stage name?"

"Just 'Bunny.' "

"Well, that explains that, then." When there was no reply, I continued. "How about we just stay off the laptop for now? You can just tell me what you want me to know."

Pitch shook his head, still looking elsewhere. I followed his gaze to the TV, to the artificial flowers sitting in the pot on the windowsill, to the hallway leading to the bedrooms, back to the flowers, then—surprisingly—to me. "You won't believe me without proof, Jack."

"I believe." And that was the truth. I felt like my life had turned into a lost episode of _The Addams Family,_ but when life gives you kooky, be thankful because at least it isn't giving you _boring._

Pitch didn't seem convinced. He frowned but eventually raised his hands in mock-defeat. "Fine, fine. Whatever you say, Jack." He was cut off by the sound of wheels on gravel.

Horror. I felt the blood leave my face. I had forgotten about my family. Clasping Pitch's wrist, I ushered him to the door, ignoring the agonizing tremors that shot from my stomach with each step. Just as we reached the door, so did Mary, carrying three plastic bags and a fountain drink.

She beamed at the sight of Pitch. "Hey!" she called out to Tooth and Nick, who were exiting the garage with bags of their own, "It's Kozmo, from Jack's school!"

Nick entered next, carrying the largest sum of groceries, followed by Tooth, who also gave Pitch a smile before whizzing to the kitchen and starting dinner.

"The boy who saved Jack?" Nick put one plump hand on Pitch's shoulder, grinning like a mad clown. "We have been wanting to thank you. Stay for dinner. My lovely wife is making chicken dumplings." He leaned in close, as if to make sure Tooth couldn't hear him, then said, "She cooks well, just salt them yourself and promise her to brush your teeth later. She is health nut."

Pitch smiled. "I would be delighted." There was that counterfeit American accent of his again.

"Settled, then!" Nick clapped his hands and shuffled to the kitchen, planting a brief kiss on Tooth's cheek.

Tooth was already slicing the chicken. Without looking up, she called, "It will be ready in forty-five minutes, boys."

I couldn't recall a single example where dining with a sociopath ever had a happy ending. Pitch must have noticed my distress because he sent a wink my way, and mumbled, "Relax, Clarice." He gave me a too-happy grin. "Shall we hang out in your room?"

I neglected to reply and started down the hallway, glancing over to make sure he was following. I figured he was probably safe, but if he did try anything, I could scream, and Nick would come blasting through my door, brandishing his oversized fists. Somewhere underneath that stout man's beer belly was chiseled muscle, believe it or not; his fists were weapons enough.

Upon entering my room, the euphoria curdled on Pitch's face.

"Is there a problem?"

He blinked. "I expected it to be . . . tidier."

Walking over to sit on my bed, I gave him the smuggest look. "I expected your teeth to be less yellow."

"Well, that's what happens when you drink tea, Jackson." He was still standing in the doorway, as if he believed taking a step inside would cause him to evaporate.

_Damn him._ It wasn't even _that_ bad. My clothes were the_ only_ things strewn across the floor, and there was a clear path from the bed to the door, and that's all that mattered, right? "It's fitting that such a dark man would enjoy such a bitter refreshment. And don't call me that."

"I take pride in the fact that I will live longer than you because of my choice of drink. Sorry, Jackson."

_Pfft._ "I know you think addressing me by my full name is _so_ very formal and posh, but it really just makes you sound like a condescending dirtbag while aging you thirty years." He looked like he was straining to form another witty comeback, so I added, "Get your ass over here before I drag you."

"Even in context that sounds wrong."

He glanced warily around the room, then started toward me: one step after another, slowly, like a frightened child. He kept to the path, making sure to avoid my clothes like they were the plague. He gave my bed a contemptuous look before sitting down near the bottom, as far away from me as he could sit. "Better?"

"Fine, sure, whatever. Just don't keep me in suspense any longer." It may not have been evident in my voice, but I was practically begging him.

He gave me a frown, appearing disinterested. "What's in it for me?"

"You owe me for not mentioning the fact that you are a murderer in the police report I had to file."

Pitch sighed and reclined, leaning on his side with his chin resting in his hand, and faced me with a bored look. "Kozmotis was spying on you, if you must know. We call them monitors, the spies. Sandy's real parents were his monitors." A light bulb turned on in my head. _So that's why he's so bitter about them._ "I, err, we, took advantage of Pitch's position and our obvious resemblance so I could gain information about our creators."

"Oh, so you're going to be spying on me from now on?"

He gave me a wolfish grin. "You should be thankful it's me and not him."

I didn't feel very thankful at that moment.

I closed my eyes, feeling a migraine in the works. "Let me try to understand this. So, we're being spied on, I'm important somehow, all of the me's are being killed off, and you're running around like some half-cocked, devil-may-care James Bond?"

Ignoring that and my further remarks, Pitch went on to tell me other wonderful facts before we sat down to dinner: Kozmotis had been paid to spy on me by some phony corporation called Lunar Industries. Pitch couldn't dig up a single grain of dirt on them, or literally anything at all. My doppelganger was still out there, biding his time. School was going well; he and Mary were apparently friends. I made sure to tell him to stay the hell away from my sister.

After the most awkward dinner since the Last Supper, Pitch excused himself from the table, cleaned his plate, and began gathering his things. Nick, however, wasn't satisfied. Still chewing a dumpling, he yammered, "Surely you could stay the night?" His cobalt irises flicked to me, and he went on in a sullen tone. "Jack hasn't had a lot of companions in his life since the passing of his parents and most closest friend. We would be more than happy."

Before I could decline for him, Pitch cleared his throat. "No, no, I wouldn't want to impede, Mr. North. You've been unduly gracious."

That wasn't enough for Nick. "I won't take no for answer, unless it's from your parents."

Reluctantly, Pitch pulled his phone from his sweater pocket and started dialing. He held the device to his ear. There was a silence that I hoped would never be broken, when at last someone picked up the other line. Pitch appeared to falter. ". . . Mom? Hey. Can I stay the night at Jack's? No, but I can brush my teeth in the morning." A glare from Tooth. "Alright, thanks. Love you too." He gave Nick a broad smile, which I knew was counterfeit, and ended the call. "Mum says it's fine." I saw his cheeks tint rosy pink as he realized his slip, but thankfully no one else seemed to notice.

The thought that filled me with the most dread was the idea of sleeping with him at my house. We went to bed shortly after Pitch phoned his mom. I doubt either of us were tired—just unwilling to deal with the situation. Normally sleep meant dreams and relaxation, but my brain couldn't find it in it to shut itself off when all I could hear was the faint breathing of mother-fucking Ted Bundy, lying next to me, curled up like a cat. (Maybe he was a _little_ attractive, but only when sleeping, when I was sure he was harmless.)

I wanted him to sleep on the floor—would have_ made_ him sleep on the floor—but Tooth would have fussed. Pitch now had his own toothbrush for whenever he came over, thanks to her, making him a part of this family in a way that only she understood. Nick and Mary would have cared, too, but they were fast asleep. Tooth was still up, fluttering about like a sprite, doing whatever she enjoyed doing at a quarter to midnight.

Just as I began considering sleep, Pitch broke out into a violent coughing fit, and I jumped out of the sheets, startled. Muffling his voice, he got up slowly and headed for the bathroom down the hall, this time carelessly stepping over my hoodies and jeans. Despite him being (most likely) bent over the sink, I could hear him retching all the way from my room.

After what seemed like hours of hacking up god-knows-what, his footsteps came pitter-pattering back down the hallway, and he manifested at my doorway, looking exhausted, his skin appearing cold and clammy under what little evening light illuminated us.

"Are you . . . okay?"

"Yeah." A wheeze. "That happens sometimes." He crossed the room and slipped back under the sheets, facing the ceiling with his head propped on his forearms, much like before. "Sorry."

"It's cool. . . . You should probably get a doctor to check that out."

He snorted. "Plenty have. They think it's cystic fibrosis, but I know better. Satoshi and Sandy were both born mute, obviously genetic there. Kozmotis was perfectly healthy. No, there is a problem with me as a clone."

"You should see better doctors."

He gave a throaty laugh, causing him to cough more. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were concerned."

I rattled my brain for a reply, eventually managing, "It's just for my own personal benefit. I mean, self-preservation, y'know? You saved me from Smelly once already, so you're pretty useful, might as well try to keep you alive."

He rolled his eyes, laughing lightly. "Touching." Then, casting me a smirk, he chided, "Smelly, though? Couldn't come up with a better nickname for him?"

I went to glare at him, met his gaze, and stopped, my lips forming an 'o.' His eyes glowed like candle wax in the dark, an eerie—but breathtaking—contrast to his ink-black hair and the nightlight surrounding us. I stared into the golden, sun-like orbs, transfixed.

"Problem?"

I blinked, snapping back to reality. "N-no, you just have . . . unique eyes."

He caught my flush and snickered, and I fought back the bile rising in the bottom of my throat. Another sly grin. "Are you experiencing something akin to Stockholm syndrome, Jack?"

"Absolutely not!" I frowned, filled with sudden indignation. "I find your eyes aesthetically pleasing; that is all."

His grin widened, showing off his pristine teeth, also scintillating in the darkness. Tooth had probably went to town on him earlier, the dentist in her frightened by his unsavory dental hygiene. He fluttered his eyelashes purposely, his eyes glowing like globs of honey beneath the feathery canopy. I rolled away, before I could lose myself in them once again, decidedly shrinking into the covers. What the hell was the matter with me?

I heard a faint chuckle next to my head, much too close.

"You're cute, Clarice."

"Keep it in your pants, Hannibal."

The night went quiet once more, and the Sandman must have paid me a visit because I fell asleep in spite of myself.

* * *

AN -

Awee yeah those terrible Nightlight and Sandman references.

Anyway, next chapter Pitch and Jack see each other at school for the first time, and Pitch teaches Jack how to use a gun.

SO EXCITING.

I answered a lot of questions in this chapter, but it only created so many more. I'm thinking this fic will be at least twenty chapters, though I may have to slow down writing to keep with Orphan Black's pace. OR I MIGHT STRAY MORE FROM THE STORY THAN I ALREADY HAVE. WHO KNOWS.

If you guys have any ideas you would like to see implemented, let me know. :)


End file.
